Jakob Arjouni - Kismet

Or I normally would, anyway. Obviously Romario had used up any such feelings that I had in reserve for him last night, leaving nothing.

I lit my next cigarette and poured more vodka. ‘I’ve no idea who’d have asked you what. But most people really don’t mind whether you have to crawl or not. Anyway, I could have got you your papers within a week.’

‘What?’ he exclaimed, and at last life returned to Tango Man. His eyes cleared, his gaze was turned on me both hopefully and incredulously, and in a surprisingly sharp tone that wasn’t going to tolerate any trickery, however kindly intended, he added, ‘What do you mean?’

‘I know someone who can do it for you. All official. I’ll call him tomorrow.’

For a moment he seemed to be wondering where the snag was. Then he said, ‘Kemal, that would be really…’ And he looked as if he was going to embrace me.

I hastily dismissed his gratitude. ‘That’s OK. It won’t cost me anything. In fact it’ll be fun.’

‘Fun?’

I nodded, put back the last of my vodka and got to my feet. ‘Nothing to do with you.’ I looked into his wide, shining eyes, and shuddered at the thought of Romario keeping this expression on his face from now until he got his papers. A grateful Romario was almost more unbearable than an ungrateful one. And anyway I knew that as soon as the visa was in his hands the familiar chicken-livered swaggerer would be back. Perhaps he wouldn’t fancy its colour, or he’d have preferred his height to have been given as a couple of centimetres taller.

‘I have to go to bed now. You can sleep on the sofa tonight. And find yourself somewhere else in the morning.’

‘Yes, sure,’ he agreed eagerly, getting to his feet too. ‘Anything you like. I really don’t want to be a burden to you.’

‘Well, that’s great. And where there’s a will, luckily, we all know there’s a way.’

Romario stared at me, then laughed with some difficulty and winked as if to say: I know you, Kayankaya, old fellow, tough outside, soft at heart.

Everything suggested that he would often get lost along the way.

‘When was the car reported stolen?’ I asked.

Hottges’s heavy breathing mingled with the noise of traffic. He was ringing from a phone box. Paper rustled, then he said, ‘Yesterday. But the owner said he’d been away for the last four days, so it could have been stolen as long ago as last Monday.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Dr Michael Ahrens.’

I made a note of it. Coughing and hawking sounds were coming from my bathroom.

‘Addresses: work, private…’

He gave me street names and phone numbers. As I wrote them down under the man’s name, the noises from the bathroom grew louder, more full-bodied, and merged at increasing speed, until you might have thought a herd of elephants had sought out my bathtub especially to throw up in it.

‘OK. What about new Mafia gangs in the station district?’

‘None. Just the usual Albanians and Turks.’

‘How about Roder? Has he gone?’

Roder was the boss of the German gang, and of course he hadn’t gone. But while every Russian pickpocket was instantly regarded as evidence of organised criminality, many people still thought of German gangs which had tight leadership as nothing but a bunch of cartoon burglars in big peaked caps with sacks full of candlesticks slung over their shoulders. Even a pro like Hottges, who should have known better, avoided linking the terms Mafia and Germans in any but a mutually hostile connection.

‘No. Roder’s still around.’

‘Albanians, Turks and Germans, then.’

Hottges did not reply. Instead I heard the flushing of the toilet from the bathroom, accompanied by something that sounded like a stuttering foghorn.

‘You’ve never heard of an outfit calling itself the Army of Reason?’

‘No. Like I said, only the usual.’

‘OK. Thanks very much. And I have a small request. An acquaintance of mine would like to get German citizenship.’

I briefly explained what he needed to know, made an appointment for Romario, and the phone call finished. The shower was turned on in the bathroom. My shower. My soap. My back-brush. I wondered if it wouldn’t have been a better idea to ask Hottges to cancel Romario’s residence permit today, once and for all. A single poncy black hair in the plughole of my bathtub, and Romario would be sorry! Just as I was thinking that, he began singing in the shower. That well-known folksong No Fairer Land. What the hell was his idea? Rehearsing for a thank-you performance when he’d been given his citizenship papers? Or was this simply the stuff he usually warbled under the shower anyway? Perhaps he sang the national anthem while he was washing up, perhaps as a future German citizen he was planning to vote CDU? I imagined him standing outside his new restaurant the Germania in a year’s time and, when asked what he liked best about Germany, saying, ‘The clean streets.’ And perhaps just then I’d come staggering out of one of the bars opposite and drop an empty cigarette packet on the pavement, and he’d point at me and explain: now there’s an example of unwillingness to integrate, and I think a man who’s lived the life I’ve lived has the right to say we’re not putting up with this kind of thing.

I stood up and marched to the bathroom door.

‘Romario!’

‘Yoo-hoo!’ the happy echo came back. ‘Shut up!’

The splashing died down a bit. ‘What?’

‘Stop singing! Shut up!’

‘Yes, up with singing! I always sing under the shower! When I came to Frankfurt I went to evening classes on German songs, did you know? We like German music a lot in Brazil, and I just love singing.’

I stared at my bathroom door.

‘It gives quite a different feel to the start of the day!’

‘Romario!’

‘Yoo-hoo!’

‘I don’t want you giving quite a different feel to the start of the day here.’

A short pause. ‘Didn’t quite catch that!’

‘Stop singing like that!’

‘Oh, too loud, is it? No problem!’

The volume, I thought as I went back into the kitchen, that’s all our CDU voter understands!

I made a fresh pot of coffee, listened in case any more of the heritage of German song was coming out of the bathroom along with the splashing of the water, finally closed the door so that I wouldn’t have to hear the water either, lit myself a cigarette and sat down at the table with a cup of coffee. I picked up the racketeer’s mobile and pressed the redial button for the umpteenth time. It was almost a shock when someone actually answered.

‘The Adria Grill, good morning,’ announced a friendly male voice.

‘Good morning… er… did you say the Adria Grill?’

‘Yes, how can I help you?’

‘Er… a friend of mine recommended your restaurant, but he didn’t know the address, and.’

‘Are you applying to join?’

‘To join? Well, perhaps. I was thinking of it. I mean, it all depends on.’

‘To find out details you’ll need to come Tuesday to Thursday about nine.’

‘About nine. Wonderful. If you could give me the address now…’

He gave it to me. A street in Offenbach.

‘Are you open today?’

‘Every day from six in the evening, except Mondays. But like I said: no more recruitment until next Tuesday.’

‘I see. Tell me, what kind of thing can I apply to do if I join?’

‘Depends on your abilities. We’ve had trained tank drivers and even pilots, but normally you’d be assigned to one of the ground troops.’

‘Aha. Sounds good.’

‘Yes, great stuff. And so important.’

‘So reasonable, too.’

‘You said it.’

‘Right, see you next Tuesday, then.’